Snake in the Grass - Rewrite

Chapter 1

I was christened Giuseppe after my father, but only my mother and older family members called me that; even my father called me by my Anglo nickname, Joe. He only called me Giuseppe if I was in trouble.

My parents, Maria and Giuseppe Sr., arrived in Melbourne from Plati, Calabria, in early 1976; they married in 1973 and tried to make it work in Italy for three years before moving to Australia.

They were both short people, no more than 5-foot-5. My father had a muscled physique from his time working as a labourer, with thick black hair and eyebrows. His face was sharp, with a hooked nose, dark brown eyes and brilliantly white teeth.

Mama also had black hair, but hers was curly. She was beautiful; almond-shaped blue eyes and an oval face which was always smiling. She had a plump figure, which was perfect for the hugging she always seemed to give to everyone.

I was the spitting image of my father, except for the nose, which I got from Mama (thank God). Cat could have been Mama's twin except she somehow ended up with light brown hair.

My parents met in Plati in late 1972, while my father was working as a labourer. My mother was working as a waitress and met my father when he injured came in for a meal. It was love at first sight for him, but it took him asking her out a few times before she said yes.

By the time they were married, Papa was struggling to put food on the table back in Plati, and had heard about how good life was in Australia. His own uncle had moved there years ago, and he wanted to give Mama the same life.

And so he and his bride boarded a plane (not a ship like his uncle had done back in the 1930's), and immigrated, settling in Collingwood and becoming citizens not long after.

Moving to Collingwood was a surprise considering most Italians, including his own uncle, settled in Carlton and Collingwood was mostly full of Irish.

But my parents didn't mind living among Irish families. In fact, Papa made many friends among them, especially those who thought they could drink him under the table.

Papa worked hard from the minute he arrived in Australia, running his own business - a fruit and vegetable stall at the Queen Victoria Market.

Every morning he would get up at four in the morning to set up his stall, the produce for which he grew in his own garden at our place. He would take one day off a week, usually a Saturday so he could go to the footy with me.

When he wasn't at the stall, footy or the pub with his Irish mates he'd be lovingly tending the tomatoes, oranges, peppers, zucchinis and everything else he grew and sold.

There were still enough Italians in the area for us to have friends from the old country. Mama would have her friends over for coffee and gossip most days, while Papa would sometimes play cards and bocce with his fellow Italian men.

Mama was pregnant with my sister Catarina when they arrived, and she was born in July that year. I was born in December two years later.

From the moment we were born, we were encouraged to live the life of typical Aussie kids. We played in the parks and streets, riding our bikes everywhere. I played footy and cricket while Cat (our name for Catarina) played netball and basketball.

And of course we spent every weekend cheering on the mighty Collingwood Magpies (Papa would never have forgiven us if we'd gone for any other team).

At the same time, I was taught never to forget my Italian heritage. Though I was born in Australia I could speak fluent Italian by the time I started school, and knew the history of Italy as well as Australia.

Above all, one lesson that was drummed into me was to never bring vrigogna (shame) upon the family.

So I always obeyed my parents (well, most times anyway) and went to Mass every Sunday, confessing my sins and doing my best to be a good person. But this didn't mean I didn't sometimes get into trouble.

I once got stealing junk food from a milk bar with my mates when I was about 15. When the uniformed policeman chased after us, I was the only one he managed to catch up with.

The cop, a tough Irishman who lived in the neighbourhood, was friends with my father; after calling the house, he sent me home with a clip over the ear.

When I got home, Papa was furious; he'd been waiting for me and growing steadily angry.

"GIUSEPPE CALABRESE! Get in here now!" he yelled from the lounge the minute I walked in the door. It wasn't the fact that he'd yelled that made me aware I was in deep shit (we're Italian, we yell all the time); it was that he used my real name.

His normally smiling face was contorted with rage as I slowly walked in to face his wrath.

"Did you think you were cool or something? Did you even stop to think before doing something so stupid?" he ranted angrily in rapid Italian.

"You stole a man's livelihood! Do you have any idea how shameful that is?"

"What honestly gave you the right to do that? How would you feel if someone walked to my stall and wrecked the fruit?"

"I'm sorry, Papa," I said with my head bowed. "It won't happen again."

"You're damn right it won't," Papa replied, looking down. Following his gaze, I saw his thick leather belt in his hand. I knew what I was in for, and prepared myself.

My arse was still hurting when I left for school the next day, reminding me of what I'd done.

That certainly wasn't the last time I got in trouble, but it was the last time I did something illegal, for I saw the disappointment and shame in my father's face that day mixed with his anger.

I never wanted to see that again.